


Self From Self

by pepperlandgirl4



Category: Star Trek RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperlandgirl4/pseuds/pepperlandgirl4
Summary: It's pretty clear that Bill is insane and Leonard doesn't quite know what to do about that. Set around the filming of Devil in the Dark/Errand of Mercy/The City on the Edge of Forever.





	

Bill Shatner was an insane man. 

An obvious conclusion, but not one that came to Leonard all at once. It was more of a gradual understanding that happened so slowly, he didn’t think it could properly be called an epiphany. Epiphany’s were supposed to come out of the blue and shock you with the force and weight of the _knowing_. Leonard had had several epiphanies in his life, so he knew the difference. Like the day he realized Spock couldn’t think of Kirk without a curious combination of love and shame. That was an epiphany. Or the time he realized that Spock was always going to be a part of his life, whether he liked it or not. That was an epiphany.

Leonard had heard countless people dismiss Bill, and his performance, claiming that he was just playing himself when he slipped on Captain Kirk’s command shirt. The people who knew Bill knew that wasn’t right. For one thing, Kirk was not an insane man. In fact, for all the impossibility of his character, Kirk was pretty well put together. His decisions and motives had a logic that was always easily traced, because he was a character. He was imaginary. Characters always behaved in relatively straightforward, easy to understand ways. They had to. They were created and written in a very methodical, deliberate process, and in the case of a television series, with the input of several intelligent, methodical minds. 

Whatever went on in Bill’s mind was not methodical. It was not the result of long discussions and debates, of input from producers, directors, and the actor himself. It was spontaneous, and twisted, and confusing, and the world Bill inhabited was a lonely place, populated by only himself. And maybe he liked it that way. He certainly never made it easy for people to join him. Even his supposed friends were kept at this strange distance. When they got too close, when they tried to help too much, something went sour inside of Bill, and he lashed out. 

There was no real point at being upset over it. It was like getting angry because it didn’t snow in Los Angeles in December, or maybe sitting on the beach and telling the tides not to come in. Leonard didn’t have time for that sort of thing. Not only was he expected to be on set for sixty or more hours a week, he also had a family to raise, friends to spend time with, and hobbies he enjoyed. Occasionally, he even liked to read a book. Any time he spent thinking about Bill’s strange, unknowable world was time wasted. 

So it was best to accept that and move on. 

Accepting that meant not speaking to Bill for the rest of the week, or calling him over the weekend, even though his father had only been gone for a week, and that wound was still open and sore and bleeding. Accepting that meant ignoring Bill in wardrobe while the ears were glued in place. Which wasn’t actually that hard to do, since he didn’t look like a man who recently had his heart torn out. In fact, he looked like an insane person who was lost in his own little world, where everything was fine, and the strange connections and disconnects were only visible to him. 

That wasn’t entirely fair. He looked like a normal person who was trying to prepare for a very long day of shooting. A normal person who hadn’t been sleeping. One who might have been substituting black coffee for all his meals. One who had the jitters because he needed nicotine to balance all the caffeine in his system, but he was still trying to quit smoking because it really was a nasty habit. Leonard still wasn’t going to talk to him. They could work together without being friendly. In fact, if recent events were anything to go by, the only way to work with Bill was to pointedly avoid being friendly. George did, and he never seemed to regret that decision. Indeed, at times George seemed to be the only person who had a really healthy outlook towards the whole series. That was probably because he didn’t get caught up in the weird games Bill didn’t even know he was playing. 

They shot _Errand of Mercy_ without exchanging a single word out of character. Everybody noticed. Nobody said anything. Except De. 

“So…you’re never going to talk to him again?” 

“Possibly.” 

“Do you think that’s very fair?” 

Leonard scowled at the pasta salad on his paper plate. He wasn’t sure who had brought it to the set, but it was surprisingly edible. Well, had been. Before De had decided to interrupt his quiet lunch with a bunch of questions. And the only reason it was a quiet lunch was because Bill was somewhere out of sight, instead of sitting at his elbow and babbling like a brook. His costume was hot. His ears itched. He wanted a shower and there were still six hours left on the shoot. 

“It was just a bad joke.” 

“It wasn’t.” 

“It was,” De insisted. “You know how he can be sometimes.” 

“I do. Which is why I’m done playing his games.” 

“They’re not games.” 

“I guess we’re going to have to agree to disagree on that point.” 

“He was just doing it for a laugh.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Because it was a joke.” 

“I don’t think it was.” 

De tilted his head, confused, and curious, and skeptical. Leonard didn’t know if anybody other than De was capable of such a look. “What do you think it was? An insult? Bill’s not like that.” 

“Yes, he is.” Not only was he like that, he could be downright cruel, in an easy-going, spiteful, straightforward, surprising, teasing way. 

“Well…okay, he is, but I don’t think he means it. Sometimes his ego…” 

“It’s not his ego. And nobody ever calls him on it.” 

“Is that what you’re doing? You’re calling him on it? Or are you punishing him?” 

“What difference does it make?” 

“Don’t you think you’re being a little bit cruel?”

Leonard blinked at the echoing of his own thoughts. He didn’t think he was being particularly cruel. Maybe a little bit spiteful. 

“Look, you know he needs you right now. Either way, he doesn’t deserve to be punished for the rest of his life.” 

True or not, Leonard didn’t think he had the power necessary over Bill to actually punish him. Nobody did. Because he didn’t care. And he cared deeply. Which only proved that Leonard was right about the insanity. And thus he was right about avoiding the insanity because he really, sincerely did not need that in his life. 

Production began on _The City on the Edge of Forever_. Bill flirted outrageously with Joan Collins, until somebody cracked a joke about turning the hose on the two of them. So he was probably all right. Or he still wasn’t sleeping. A fact which was supported by the ladies in make-up bitching about covering the bags under his eyes. And that was _not_ Leonard’s responsibility, and he shouldn’t have to feel like it was. Bill had a family, after all. And other friends. Or what passed for friends when it came to Bill, because the people who could have really cared about him had already been alienated. Mainly because they didn’t understand him, and Leonard did a little bit, but that still didn’t make Bill Shatner his responsibility. 

That’s what he continued to tell himself until he walked by Bill’s dressing room and caught a glimpse of the man from the corner of his eye. Then he didn’t believe it anymore. 

Leonard stopped in his tracks, considering his options. Bill hadn’t noticed him yet, which bought him a little bit of time. He could knock and alert him to his presence. Or he could silently shut the door so nobody else could walk by and see Bill looking…vulnerable. That was the right word. He looked vulnerable. Sitting in his plaid shirt and jeans from wardrobe, his hair a little mussed, his eyes downcast in something that almost looked like thoughtful repose. His shoulders were slumped, too. Nobody who saw the man now would call him arrogant or egomaniacal. 

Leonard knocked on the door. 

Bill’s head shot up, and for a moment, his face was completely naked, everything inside of him exposed. Then the mask slid back into place. It was ill-fitting and perfect. 

“Hey, Len.” He didn’t sound surprised. 

“Can I come in?” 

“Yeah.” 

The star’s dressing room wasn’t that big. It was still better than having to share. And Leonard supposed having his name out on the door, painted in gold, counted for a lot. 

“Did I interrupt something?” 

“No. No. I was just…thinking.” 

“Did anybody ever tell you that’s dangerous?” 

“No, but several people have told me I don’t do enough of it.” 

Leonard let himself smile a little. “Shooting’s going well.” 

“Yeah. Script’s not as much of a mess as I expected.” 

“It’s pretty good,” Leonard agreed amiably. “When are you expected on set again?” 

“In about an hour. They’re doing something with the lights or something. I wasn’t paying attention.” 

“It’s the lighting,” Leonard confirmed, because he was given the same information. “So I guess that gives you plenty of time to think.” 

“That doesn’t actually sound like a good thing to me.” 

“You’re not one for introspection,” Leonard said. 

“Not an hour’s worth, anyway.” 

Leonard offered a small smile. They were on speaking terms again. That was probably a good start. Except that it wasn’t. At least when they weren’t talking, they could pretend that was all that there was between them. Now that they were speaking, Leonard couldn’t help but be aware of all the things they weren’t saying. The jokes that weren’t being told. The small flirtations that remained unspoken. He should make it right. Did he even want to?

“How…how are you doing?” 

Bill shrugged. “I keep remembering that I can’t call him. Then I remember I didn’t really call him often enough, anyway. Then I thought about calling you…” 

“I thought about calling you,” Leonard admitted. “This weekend. I thought about it a few times.” 

Bill accepted that with a small nod of his head. For a moment—for a brief moment—Leonard thought he might get an apology, but dismissed that possibility. If he didn’t expect it, he couldn’t be disappointed by not receiving it. 

“I wish that you had. I…I needed to talk to somebody…to you, Len.” 

That was an apology in Bill Shatner’s world. An admittance that he needed somebody, instead of the other way around. Leonard realized if he accepted that, he would always have to accept that. If he didn’t accept Bill, then Bill would always have the power to frustrate him and annoy him and drive him crazy. He leaned against the edge of the counter, within touching distance of Bill, and folded his arms. 

“What about?” 

“Falling apart. There's a line...how does it go? Sylvia is myself and banished from her is self…from self. A deadly…banishment.” He spoke as though he was in front of an entire theater of people. 

“Now I know you’re morose.” 

The corner of Bill’s mouth turned upward. “That line’s been going around and around in my head. I haven’t thought about it in years.” 

“I’m not surprised it’s popped up now. With your father…” 

“That’s not why I’ve been thinking about it. It’s…been a long two weeks.” 

Leonard didn’t want to let go of his anger like it never happened at all. But as it slipped from his fingers, he knew it was gone for good. Bill would probably do something else in the coming weeks to piss him off, but at that moment, _Get this man an Aspirin_ was nothing more than a harmless, albeit childish, joke. Perhaps an ill-timed one, but a joke all the same. There wasn’t a hint of guile in Bill’s hazel eyes. They were open and honest and soft. Pleading. Leonard wanted to believe him so much that he forgot Bill was a pretty good actor. And an insane one at that. That was all right, though, because he was at his most honest when he was acting. When he was pretending. 

“Yes.” Leonard reached out and touched Bill’s arm. “Yes, it has.” 

Bill smiled slowly, sparking that certain glow in his eyes. He rose from his seat in a fluid motion, and Leonard knew he was trapped. _Of course_ , Leonard thought as Bill tilted his head and his mouth descended, _there are worse places in the world to be trapped than this._ That was Leonard’s last coherent thought for a long while. Bill had many, many talents, but kissing was right up there at the top. It might have been his number one talent, in fact. He dedicated his entire body to the process, and when Bill Shatner kissed you, you _knew_ it. You felt it for the rest of the day. You tasted him for hours, and when it finally started to fade, you ached to taste him again. Leonard didn’t know how that could be, but like with everything else about Bill, he was learning to accept it. He gripped Bill by the shoulders, pulled him closer, and opened his mouth to the assault, unmindful of the fact that they were both still in make-up, and they’d be called back to the set far too soon.

It was almost a relief when Bill broke away from his lips, giving him a chance to catch his breath and get a hold of himself. Bill wasn’t done using his mouth, though, and he covered Leonard’s throat and neck with hard kisses, unmindful of the make-up. Leonard didn’t resist. How could he? He just dropped his head back and closed his eyes, sighing Bill’s name, and wondering how he kept finding himself in this position. 

“Where’s your hat?” Bill asked, his question muffled against Leonard’s skin. 

“It’s too hot to wear that thing when we’re not shooting.” 

“I like it.” 

“Yeah, I bet you do.” 

Bill pawed at his shirt, pulling it up Leonard’s ribs. About a thousand protests filtered through his mind, but he didn’t give voice to any of them. And he forgot them when Bill unzipped Leonard’s jeans and pushed his hand down the front, seeking out his erection. He didn’t have to do that. Leonard hadn’t broken and knocked on the door because he was horny. Bill probably understood that, but _he_ was probably horny. Or it was easier for him to say with his mouth what he couldn’t say with his words. Leonard decided to believe that. It was better for both of them. 

Bill wrapped his fingers around Leonard’s shaft and gave it a good squeeze. His thumb swiped over the tip, smoothing over the pre-come there. He dragged his palm down the length, and rotated his wrist slowly, letting the heel of his hand press against Leonard’s sensitive crown. Then he slid back up the shaft, almost lazily. Like they had all the time in the world, so Leonard should just relax and give himself over to the sensations that Bill created so effortlessly. Like everything else Bill did, it was easy. And he made it easy to follow his lead. 

Bill’s mouth traveled down his body, kissing him through his clothes and making him wish he could just tear the damned clothes off. Soon, he was on his knees, and Leonard could only see the top of his head, the ridge of his nose, the line of his mouth. He didn’t so much swallow Leonard’s cock as he attacked it, working with the same sort of excited tenacity he usually reserved for filming. Leonard’s eyes rolled back. 

His hands were as busy as his mouth. He massaged Leonard’s thighs, cupped and caressed his balls, found new sensitive spots to exploit. He played Leonard’s body like it was an instrument, and he knew exactly where to push, exactly what buttons to press, what chords to hit. His fingers were smooth, his skin perfect and well cared for, his nails trimmed short. He was so good at this. And why? As far as Leonard knew, Bill didn’t exactly seek out the company of men. Or maybe he lived some sort of double-life—or a triple-life. Keeping himself divided into parts so no one person could have too much. But with Bill Shatner, what you see is what you get. Leonard touched his hollowed cheek, caressing the flawless skin. There was no more or less to him than what he was offering in that moment. And that was good enough for Leonard. 

Years later, when Bill tells the story of how he pissed Leonard off with “Get that man an Aspirin,” Leonard laughs. And why not? It’s a funny story. But Bill adds _I never understood until this moment…_ and that just makes Leonard laugh more. Because he still doesn’t understand, and he probably never will. It's a comedy, after all, not a tragedy.


End file.
